Zuberi continued to chant, shuffling his feet and shaking his body. He turned three times and tossed the amputated arm into the air. It landed nearby. Thud. It mimicked the sound of a bird of prey that struck the earth after being shot out of the night sky.
“Come!” ordered the witch doctor. Charles and Jackob rushed to his side. Under the light of the full moon, the limb resembled a broken tree branch. It pointed southeast.
“We’ve already dug in that direction!” Jackob cried.
Charles looked at the moon to find comfort in its cool light. He had been thinking what Jackob had said.
Zuberi kept calm. He studied the two men, his lips spreading into a broad smile. “It must be buried here. In time, the gold will rise.” Then he added quickly, “If it doesn’t, it’s because this arm came from a cadaver. The rite is meant to be performed with an arm from a living embulamaro, the right arm. Not the left. It might be necessary to repeat the ritual.”
By the time he arrived home, Charles was tormented by an insidious desperation. Unable to sleep, he sat on the red leather sofa and turned on the television. He leaned forward to take off his shoes. His feet were swollen, heavy, and his excess fat slowed his every movement. He flopped against the back of the sofa, gasping for air. He was drowning in a swamp of emotions. Then, a sudden awareness ejected him from the slimy waters in which he had been trapped. He, Charles Fielding, the great entrepreneur, would live. With new determination, he bent forward to stand tall. It was precisely during complex situations, he realized, such as the one with which he was struggling, that protagonists throughout history had found their tenacity. His trust in himself began to bloat.
The fishermen of Murutanga suspected the body had belonged to a white foreigner. “Who can guarantee these limbs and organs came from an embulamaro?” asked one.
“The radio transmission test will prove it to you,” said the healer. He’d conduct the fail-safe test if that’s what the fishermen wanted, though he was taken aback by their cynicism, that they’d demand proof from their healer. His great ancestors, he was sure, had never been doubted like this.
Zuberi remembered the time he had launched the first motorboat purchased by the fishermen’s consortium. It had taken the fishermen years to save up enough money to purchase the boat. He had stood in the center of the boat, carefully balanced with his long staff in hand, next to the captain who would start the engine. The captain pulled the cord again and again, each time with increasing strength, and then he’d pause to catch his breath and try again. Five, ten times. The community, gathered on the dock, offered all sorts of hypotheses about why the boat wouldn’t start. “It’s a humid day.” “The motor was built for saltwater.” “It refuses to start because there are no fish in the lake.”
Zuberi called on the Spirits, he stretched out his arms, he searched the sky, but the motor refused to show signs of life.
A little boy asked his father, “What kind of fuel does it take? Is it the same that cars on the road use?” His father told him to shut up with a slap and the others laughed. They boy furrowed his brow.
Zuberi tapped his staff to stop the buzzing of voices and to attract attention. A reverberation rippled from the concave bottom of the boat out into the water.
“The Spirits of the Lake have spoken through the boy,” Zuberi declared. “The solution has been revealed. Have you not understood?” In a charitable tone, he asked, “Where is the gas tank?” The fishermen searched inside the boat without success. Finally, Zuberi pointed his staff toward the beach. The bright red tank had been left on the white sand.
“If it weren’t for my guidance, you would drown on the shore,” said Zuberi.
The people agreed. It was true: Zuberi was their guide. Did they still think of him as their guide? he wondered.
In the evening, after he prepared the amulets and potions, Zuberi turned on the transistor radio in his workroom while the fishermen crowded in the small space. The station that played was known for its good reception. Zuberi picked up one of the amulets, holding it next to the antenna. The reception became fuzzy, fading into static.
“Such strong interference can only be generated by a ngazu,” admitted an old fisherman.
“Now you have proof. These are from a recently dead embulamaro, caught before it was able to vanish,” Zuberi announced.
39.
A year had passed since Zuberi performed rites, spells, and potions with the zeru zeru limbs and organs. Yet the fishermen’s nets remained empty. Yunis and her husband—although they coupled as often as two rabbits in a small cage—were unable to conceive.
Zuberi was horrified that all his efforts came to naught. He imagined the lineage of ancestors eyeing him from the lake, appalled by his failure and the damage it did to the reputation of the twenty generations that came before him.
Kondo publicly expressed his disappointment that Zuberi had settled for a cadaver, which fed the flame of discontent on the island. Before the cadaver debacle, Zuberi’s power in the community had reached an all-time high, and Kondo was pleased that he was able to shrink the witch doctor down to size.
Although Kondo enjoyed shaming the shaman for his shoddy work, it was essential that the spiritual and civil systems of the community coexist, that neither prevail over the other.
The fishermen demanded that the witch doctor give back their money. Yunis’s husband agreed with the fishermen.
The witch doctor refused. “I have fulfilled our agreements and have used the ‘symbolic’ amount you gave me to pay the headhunters.”
Zuberi’s humiliation ballooned, and he approached Jackob about his dilemma. Charles’s assistant assured him that, though Mr. Fielding would not expressly authorize hunting down a living embulamaro, neither would he refuse to pay the price if the desired outcome was achieved. Indeed, his employer also had not attained the results he wanted.
The owner of Charles Fielding Gold Limited had given orders to dig deeper in the direction that had been determined by the midnight ritual. The enormous quantity of soil had been sifted and washed, and all that was found was dust, dirt, and stones. Mr. Fielding poured more resources into the project until there were three times as many miners working as there would normally be on a plot of that size. The geologists assayed the extracted material and each time reported it contained insignificant amounts of gold. Debts grew day after day, supplier after supplier. Charles was increasingly worried and irascible. He had paid a great sum for the zeru zeru. However, he was determined to reach his goal and would do whatever it took. “Even if it means digging to the center of the Earth!” he bellowed, leaning over a trench several yards deep.
Jackob was concerned about Mr. Fielding’s health. He was regularly short of breath, bathed in sweat, and with the added weight, he was having a hard time walking. If the fate of Charles Fielding Gold Limited did not improve soon, Jackob, himself, could lose his position and prestige. And with two children and a third on the way, he could not allow anything to undermine his social and economic position. I will help Mr. Fielding make the right choice, thought Jackob. I’ll earn his eternal favor and gratitude. As a white African, his heart is conflicted, and he’s unable to admit what he truly wants to do.
Thomas was, again, the man for the job, the witch doctor was sure. Kondo threatened Zuberi. He said if Ramadani wasn’t allowed to join the new hunt for the embulamaro, he would turn the villagers against him. Zuberi agreed, feigning enthusiasm, though it no longer mattered to him either way.
That evening, when Kondo and his family sat around the fire, the village chief told his wife and daughters that he wanted a moment alone with Ramadani.
The young man listened to his father without conveying emotion. Neither the news that his father arranged for him to join the headhunters nor Kondo’s plan for Adimu if the headhunting scheme didn’t work aroused a visible reaction. Kondo interpreted his son’s response as excessive humility.
He left Ramadani in front of the fire and went outside for a walk. Befo
re stepping over the threshold, he turned to look at his grown son. Kondo’s first child had been born when the village chief was Ramadani’s age. The young man was sitting cross-legged, his shoulders slightly hunched, his neck still slender like that of an adolescent. For a moment, the energetic child who used to jump on the chief’s lap appeared before him. A wave of affection overwhelmed him, and he yearned to embrace his son, but he desisted, and after a few moments, he stepped into the darkness. The forest rustled and murmured, and Kondo heard encouraging words whispered in his ear.
The following morning, Ramadani agreed to join the headhunters. With a half-smile the son thanked his father. “Can you give me handcuffs, a flashlight, and a knife? They’re for the hunt.”
“Handcuffs, like the ones the police use?” his father asked, tilting his head.
Ramadani nodded.
“Where can I get those? Only the police have them.”
“Father, I’m sure you can get a pair.”
Kondo accompanied his son to the Mwanza ferry where Ramadani would meet Thomas and his gang. Ramadani hung his head as he walked. He attributed the youth’s moodiness to his fear of spending time with lowlifes, and Kondo held back from hounding him. Once the ferry was no more than a white spot on the horizon, Kondo put the finishing touches on his plan to save his son’s life and the future of his clan. His son was too passive and sullen to find his own zeru zeru, the father thought.
40.
The Fieldings were having dinner in the garden of their Ukerewe residence. The air was warm that Sunday evening. Husband and wife seemed to have accepted each other’s shortcomings and resigned themselves to the fact that even the best unions cannot be all sunshine and no shadow. But why such protracted quiet? Sarah wondered. Only the occasional tinkling of their silverware broke the silence of the meal. Could Charles and I be growing apart? Ridiculous, she told herself.
Charles, for his part, couldn’t let his wife see his shame, his fast-approaching poverty, or his secret collaboration with the village witch doctor. Their silence spread out like an invisible sheet over the garden, hiding his desire to obtain another arm of an albino and her desire to mother the child with albinism. It was a spell that no magic could break.
“I’ve asked the cook to prepare fish next weekend,” said Sarah.
“Ah, I forgot to tell you…next Saturday I have to be in Mwanza,” replied Charles. “I have a meeting with a client at the office. Do you want to stay there with me?”
Sarah shook her head. “No, I have an important engagement here in Ukerewe next week.”
“Oh really? What is it?” asked Charles as he sunk his silver spoon into the mango dessert in front of him.
“You’ll be in Mwanza. It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” she answered brusquely. “I’m going upstairs to read,” she announced as she stood.
Charles stayed at the table to finish his dessert. Then, when he was sure none of the domestic staff was watching, he cleaned every trace of cream in the serving dish with his finger, wiped his hands on the white cotton tablecloth embroidered with his initials, and stood up to join Sarah. He’d forgotten to tell her about a going-away party for a financier who was heading back to Switzerland.
He went up the stairs, calling her name, but got no response. He followed the long corridor on the first floor that led to their bedroom when he heard rustling in one of the guest bedrooms, a room no one ever entered. The door was ajar, and a slender beam of light cut across the floor.
“Sarah, dear, are you in here?” Pushing the door open, he saw his wife quickly close a cupboard. Charles stepped into the room. Sarah looked down.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “What are you hiding?”
His wife moved aside as he reached out to open the cupboard door. The shelves overflowed with dolls, many of them still wrapped in plastic. “You collect dolls, and you’re ashamed of it?”
Sarah was silent. Charles opened another cupboard and found a rack of girls’ clothes. He touched the fabrics, the lace-trimmed hems, noticing they were all about the same size. “They’re for Adimu, aren’t they?” he asked in a whisper.
“Not only,” she replied impatiently. “For your employees’ children too.”
“My employees have sons as well,” remarked Charles. “I don’t see anything in here for them.”
Sarah took one step back and crossed her arms over her chest. For once, her husband had figured her out. Yes, the dolls and every single dress had been bought for Adimu, but she had never given them to the child for fear of displeasing her husband.
She paused and rested her left hand over her mouth, fingers spread slightly like a metal grate in a gutter, holding back debris. She had followed Charles to the end of the world because only he made her feel loved and protected. But memories of her father had begun to torment her again and shadowy doubts about their marriage swirled in her head like smoke wafting above a fire. She desperately needed the security that marriage offered. Hold on to him, Sarah, she told herself. You did the right thing in choosing him as your life companion. Faced with the same choice, you’d choose him again. Yet every night, she dreamed of being a mother. That her husband would never allow her dream to come true broke her heart.
She thought she saw a shadow of tenderness in Charles’s blue eyes. Clasping her hands together, she said, “Can we invite her to lunch, and I’ll give her one of these gifts? A birthday present. She’s probably never celebrated a birthday. I’m sure she has no idea when it is.”
Charles hugged his wife. “I’ll stay here with you next weekend.”
Sarah felt a release of tension across her forehead that radiated down toward her neck and chest. She hadn’t expected Charles would neglect business to have lunch with Adimu. She couldn’t have guessed Charles’s conscience was in a knot of anguish. The image of that amputated arm glowing in the moonlight haunted him. It was his nightmare while he slept and his obsession while awake.
Instead of having Jackob act as messenger, Sarah and Charles decided to surprise Adimu at her home. But when they arrived, she was not there. They waited, attracting the attention of curious neighbors and passersby. Finally, they saw her returning home with a basket of woven palm leaves balanced on her head.
“We’d like you to come for lunch. We’d like to have a party for you, for your birthday,” said Sarah.
Adimu had the feeling she had been mistaken for someone else and looked over her shoulder. Why? she wondered. How do they know it’s my birthday when I don’t know when I was born? She looked down and slid her foot sideways in the dust. “I don’t think I can come. I have to do my stepsisters’ laundry. I’ve only come home to get the dirty clothes.”
“We’ve got a washing machine and a woman who will take care of it while we have lunch,” offered Charles.
Sarah looked at him, eyebrows raised.
After a pause, Adimu nodded in agreement. “But how do you know it’s my birthday?” she finally was able to ask.
Sarah cupped her cheek and said, “We want to celebrate your life, sweetheart.”
Once the laundry was taken to the Fieldings’ home, the three of them drove to the port where the adults had organized an excursion on the lake with lunch aboard their boat and a short stop in Mwanza.
As the boat pulled away from the dock, Sarah gave in to her excitement. She beamed, holding out a gift-wrapped box.
For a split second, Adimu stared at the present. Then a twinkle came to her eyes, and a smile crept over her face. She opened it with a quivering hand, careful not to ruin the pretty wrapping. “Two new dresses!” she exclaimed. She slipped into the cabin to try on the dresses, paying careful attention not to detach the colorful tags decorating each collar.
Back on deck, Adimu twirled in her aqua green frock and let Sarah comb her hair. Charles watched them, forcing himself to remain detached. He still saw Adimu as a potential threat to his freedom. He had to admit, though, that neither his wife nor the girl put pressure on him to change the
present arrangement. Things were under control, he told himself. He relaxed. His eyes glistened.
I’m sure he’s my father, he must be, thought Adimu. Otherwise why would he be taking me out to celebrate my birthday? That’s what fathers do. Adimu often caught him looking at her. He’d hand her a handkerchief at just the right moment. He even touched her head.
Looking at Adimu, Charles couldn’t help but think of his unproductive gold mine. The amputated limb burned in his mind. He contemplated Adimu’s thin white arms covered with fine blond fuzz, and his heart contracted with bitter tenderness. The fine bones of those delicate, pale arms would break with a single chop of a machete. He was ashamed of his thoughts and, to distract himself, he looked at her face. She looked older than her twelve years, he thought sadly.
Adimu gorged herself on the lighthearted day as though it was the dessert Sarah had scooped onto a plate for her and avoided thinking about returning home that evening to her sad routine. She spoke freely about her life, unaware that it heightened the two adults’ sense of impotence, as though they were in part responsible for her misadventures.
When she told them about how her classmates had pushed her out of the class photo, Charles was astonished. “You’ve never had your picture taken?”
Adimu’s expression clouded. Why is he so surprised? she wondered. Not even her grandmother had.
At the end of the day, when they returned to White House, Charles brought a camera into the garden, set it up with a self-timer, and ran to sit next to Adimu and Sarah before the shutter clicked. After disappearing in the house for a short time, he returned, bearing three copies of the photo. “One for each of us,” he said. Adimu looked at herself between the adults and turned her head. She was the whitest of the three and wondered how she could be whiter than her father. However, having a picture of herself—and together with the Fieldings!—made her feel so alive that she didn’t care about how ugly she looked. She thanked them both and decided that, from that moment on, she would keep the photo with her always.
Then She Was Born Page 20